DIMA (Filthy Rich Alphas)

He smirked. “I can see that.”

“So, Ashley and I look out for each other.”

“This is good.”

“Why?”

“You may understand me more. . .in some ways. Granted, no two people with autism are alike. That’s why it’s called a spectrum.”

I studied his face as if for the first time. “I have so many questions. Tell me. What does Asperger’s mean for you?”

“I learn differently. In some ways, I think it’s a gift. Maybe even a blessing. As you can probably tell from the sex this evening, I don’t have any sensory sensitivities.” He kissed me. “I love being touched, especially by you.”

“I’m glad. I love being touched by you too.” I smirked. “When did you realize you had Asperger’s?”

“It took a while. When I was a kid, I played differently.”

“How?”

“In the schoolyard, I always liked to place footballs and basket balls in a nice line. Meanwhile, the kids wanted to play with the balls. It aggravated the shit out of me. Therefore, I wasn’t having it.”

“You never let anyone play with the balls?”

“They looked better in their lines.”

I chuckled. “And the kids let you do that?”

He gave me a curious look. “How could they not?”

“You’re serious about that question?”

“I am. I’ve always been tall. Lei, Chanel, and Romeo were always by my side, always protecting. The kids had no choice, but to watch me making my lines with the balls.”

“And what did Lei, Chanel, and Romeo have to say about it?”

“Chanel and Lei did anything Romeo wanted, and he always wanted me to be happy.” He sighed. “I miss him.”

“Romeo was a good friend?”

“He was. Which was lucky for me because I’ve always found it incredibly difficult to make new friends.” He slipped his hand down to my cheek. “People just assumed I was a rude kid.”

“What about your teachers?”

“I have a superior IQ.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I do.” He grinned. “I excelled at puzzles and math. However, I struggled socially, even with the teachers. I battled with distinguishing humor and sarcastic remarks.”

“Do you still?”

“With people that I don’t know well, it can be confusing. I have to assess their body language and somehow make an educated guess.” He moved his hand from my face. “At thirteen, one of my teachers convinced my uncle Kirill to sign for me to get tested. Apparently, they’d asked my mother and she’d always refused.”

“And that was when you were confirmed to be on the spectrum?”

He nodded. “My mother. . .she didn’t take it well. The first thing she told me was to never tell anyone.”

Sadness hit me.

“She was depressed for the rest of the month. Lots of drinking. Lots of looking at me odd. The next month she had me ditch school. We flew to Europe and had this big vacation.”

“That sounds like fun.”

He shrugged. “We sampled cheeses in Paris. We saw Big Ben in London. We tried on wooden clogs in Amsterdam. Then. . .”

“What?”

“We made it to Switzerland and she walked me up to my new boarding school and left me there. She handed me to the woman and left without a goodbye.”

I parted my lips. “Oh no.”

“And I stood there confused, watching her rush away.”

“Were you upset with your mother?”

“Even at thirteen, I knew I was a liability to her when it came to the Diamond Syndicate. No one understood autism then. They told her that I would have no empathy. That I would never truly love her. That I didn’t understand the concept of love.”

Nervous, I gazed into his eyes. “But, you do understand love and have empathy?”

“I do. It’s just. . .”

“What?”

“It takes me longer.” He blinked. “It. . .”

“Tell me.”

“For example, I can always intellectually infer that someone is sad that they lost another person. But in the moment, the realization isn’t there. Hours later, it hits me and I feel it.” He took my hand and placed it on his chest. “I feel it right here, exactly where I think everyone else must feel it too.”

“That’s correct.”

He sighed as if relieved to hear it.

Intrigued, I asked, “So, it’s more of a communication problem too?”

“Perhaps, I don’t express empathy in the proper, conventional way.”

“Did your mother realize that you loved her?”

“I believe so. I know that I love her with every bit of my heart.”

“And. . .”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. I just have so many questions.”

“Ask them. It feels good to open up to you. It feels good to not always have to close parts of me away.”

I slipped my fingers along his arm. “Who else knows about this?”

“Romeo. When we were kids, he would always say, ‘You’re a crazy white boy. There’s something different in your face. You don’t have what others have.’” Dima laughed to himself. “After the diagnosis, he was the only person I told. And he said, ‘I told your ass that you’re different. Accept that shit and move on.’”